Moon Underfoot (6 page)

The three gray-haired men smiled as they looked at each other. Just like that, their adrenaline was pumping again.

Walter discreetly pulled out three rum-flavored cigars and handed them out like prizes. “Looks like we gotta lot of work to do, you guys.”

F
OR JAKE, THE
past eighteen months had been difficult, to say the least. He kept his worries, fears, and anxieties bottled up. He never shared any of it with anyone—not the multitude of counselors, therapists, and doctors—not even Morgan. It was ten hours of hell. Jake had tried to avoid a confrontation, but when cornered, he had killed a man to start a night of terror and then killed another to finish it. Jake had done what was necessary to survive and to protect the lives of Katy and Elizabeth Beasley, a young woman who also happened to be in the wrong place at the worst possible time.

The night’s aftermath could have easily broken Jake and Morgan’s already strained marriage; however, their relationship became noticeably stronger. The episode served to bring them together and make each appreciate the other more.

Jake maintained to Morgan, and to anyone else who asked, that he was doing fine and suffering no ill effects. But he was slowly deteriorating from boredom. Every day he went to work, watched computer screens, and held the hands of his clients, who expected him to see into the future. He was in the rat race, chasing cheese, and he cared nothing about it.

The events of that night in an Alabama swamp—being stalked, lying in wait to kill a man, running for his life in the inky darkness, and being responsible for other lives—had purged Jake of normalcy. He now needed more from his life and out of it; but at forty, with a huge mortgage, two car payments, and private-school tuition, a career change was not in the cards. He had no financial reserves or assets to sustain any deviation from his current path.

He missed the rush he experienced in those deadly encounters, and he had begun dreaming that he worked as a federal game warden, tasting the adrenaline.

For the past eighteen months, almost every morning before work, he had eaten breakfast with a group of older men—in their seventies and eighties—all veterans, at a gas station diner. They noticed the change in Jake but didn’t discuss it in front of him. Jake could sense that they knew, and he felt at peace in their company. The only thing that appeared to matter to the old men was their newfound respect for him—for his character and what he had been willing to do when faced with evil. Jake was beginning to feel as though they now considered him a peer.

He poured himself into a career that he didn’t love and strove to be a better husband. He paid more attention to Morgan, he began teaching a young-adult Sunday-school class, and he went to a Southern Baptist couples’ retreat where he badly wanted to fish in the scenic mountain lake but didn’t, which killed him; he knew it had to be the most underfished lake on the entire North American continent.

I
T WAS A
dreary, rainy day about fifteen minutes before noon when Morgan and Jake walked through the front door of the Old Waverly Clubhouse. The Sunday buffet, loaded with quintessential Southern cooking, was a family favorite, and they rarely missed it. With Katy at her grandparents’ house in Columbus, the couple was alone. Morgan requested a table near the grand piano.

The stately dining room was about half-full of mostly Baptists, since their church let out earlier than those of the Methodists, Episcopalians, and Catholics. The only other folks eating were golfing guests. Jake spent most of the meal daydreaming of slipping off to deer hunt that afternoon, but he didn’t know how Morgan would react, since the police hadn’t caught the Peeping Tom and didn’t have any leads. He knew deep down he probably shouldn’t go.

“That was delicious,” Jake said as he leaned back.

“As usual,” Morgan replied with a smirk.

“I ate too much macaroni and cheese.”

“As usual.”

“I love it.” He sighed as he tossed his napkin on the table.

“It’s on the kids’ buffet,” Morgan observed, smiling.

“
So?”

“I’m just saying. It’s on the kids’ buffet; not all adults share your passion for mac and cheese.”

“It’s easier when Katy’s here. Folks just think I’m fixing her a plate,” Jake said, indicating he had thought this through.

Morgan was enjoying the moment. The dining room was elegant and the music enjoyable. “What if I told you that it was going to be easier to get in the future?”

“They’re moving it to the main buffet?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“You got the recipe?”

“No…yes…I do, but you know mine’s not as good.”

Morgan and her close friends weren’t known to be women of the kitchen. In fact, one of her best friends joked that her family ate out so much, when she announced, “Supper’s ready,” her kids would run to the car. Morgan had set off the kitchen’s smoke alarm more than once.

Before Jake could answer, a young waitress asked if they would like coffee. Morgan always enjoyed a cup, especially when it was cold outside. Today she politely declined.

“You don’t want any coffee?” Jake asked.

“No. I can’t have the caffeine,” she said, thinking he might connect the dots.

“Planning a power nap?”

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Jake was shocked. He stared straight at her and began smiling.

“We’re gonna have a baby,” she explained, glowing.

S
AMANTHA WAS LISTENING
to Sara Evans as she wrestled with the ethical issues involving her new clients. Occasionally she explained her thoughts to her cat. The cat pretended to care, but soon his eyes grew heavy to Sara’s smooth, sentimental voice. The cat stretched out asleep, and Sam was beginning to feel better about the situation with the old men.

After graduating, Samantha had moved into her late aunt’s antebellum home that had been in the family since the 1850s. It had sat vacant for the last two years, and someone had stolen all of the period furnishings and paintings. Sam was certain it was a local antique dealer who had constantly pestered her to sell him the home’s contents. It pissed her off every time she thought about it. The Columbus tourism bureau had been begging her to restore the unique house and include it in the annual historic-homes tour. Sam knew she eventually would, but first she wanted to track down the authentic furniture. The giant old house was depressing with no furniture.

Sam had decided she could act as attorney for the old men because if they had actually robbed the Kroger, any crimes they may have committed occurred prior to their meeting. She would be comfortable representing them as long as they didn’t
discuss future crimes or ask her to cover up any criminal activity. Tomorrow she would deposit the cash retainer and pay some bills.

As she finished the last sip of coffee, she turned off the music, clicked on the TV, and tuned in to the local news. The cat rolled over when she gently rubbed his head. Tom the cat was the only male in her life, and that was fine by her. Since her divorce almost two years earlier, dating had not figured into her lifestyle just yet.

“So, Tom,” she said to the motionless cat.

“We agree on our new clients?” Sam asked as she watched the anchor struggle through a news story. The teleprompter obviously wasn’t working correctly. It reminded her of the president. She chuckled.

“I know it’s weird, but the old guys seem sweet and excited about helping others. I like that.”

Samantha watched the cat ignore her.

“Bottom line, I’m an attorney, and they need a good one.”

Sam hoped to see her commercial run during the last newscast, but she never did.

E
THAN “MOON PIE”
Daniels had no formal education but a lot of street smarts. His savvy business instincts had created enough success to allow him to pursue his obsession of poaching big whitetail deer. Some people scuba dive; others play golf. Moon Pie loved to sneak onto someone else’s property and poach the biggest deer on the place. He loved the rush of getting away with it more than anything. He also sold the antlers to a taxidermist, who in turn sold them to interior decorators via the Internet.

His daddy had introduced him to poaching as a way of putting meat on the table, just like he taught him to grow marijuana as a cash crop to supplement the family’s meager legitimate income. His daddy had worked on a soybean farm, but he was also the best old-school poacher around northeast Mississippi and northwest Alabama. He taught his son well.

As an adult, even though money wasn’t an issue for Moon Pie, he continued to hunt but upped the excitement by poaching. With more landowners spending large sums of money to grow big, healthy deer, Moon Pie’s poaching grounds became more specific and more of a challenge. He would target a specific individual’s place and make it personal. He watched outdoors shows
and read hunting magazines, looking for the prime spots within driving distance. Fortified with cash from his criminal activities, Moon Pie took poaching to a whole new level.

Since moving back to the area, Moon Pie paid cash to rent a single-wide trailer close to the Columbus Air Force Base. It was cheap, since it was next to the busiest air base in the country, averaging 269 daily takeoffs and landings. The base ranked second only to Atlanta’s airport in terms of air traffic. The constant noise didn’t bother him. The trailer was a temporary accommodation that perfectly fit his needs.

Moon Pie also owned a customized thirty-six-foot houseboat he had named
Mud Cat
. He had used her for years to move drugs up and down the river. She had ample hidden storage and a huge diesel engine that could burn almost any mix of diesel fuel available and move her at surprising speeds. She looked a bit worn and was in dire need of a bottom job, but mechanically, she was in great shape. He rented her out between his runs, so the marine police and the Army Corps of Engineers lockmasters were used to seeing the old vessel all over the river system.

The Columbus Marina was home base for
Mud Cat
. She was making him a lot of money and didn’t appear to be attracting unwanted attention, which made him more brazen daily. The people supplying Moon Pie were pleased with his transportation and dependability. It might have taken a few more days to get the goods to their destination than the interstate system, but nobody ever questioned him. The state highway patrol was always a threat to make a random stop of a suspicious vehicle or driver, or for any type of traffic violation, real or fabricated. Since the suppliers were from the Gulf Coast, they were familiar with boats, and they appreciated Moon Pie’s resourcefulness in using one this far inland.